


hear me, baby? hold it together.

by badlapis



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 06:29:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11663514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badlapis/pseuds/badlapis
Summary: McCree is forced to spend a day at the beach and relax. Little does he know how much more he'll find.





	hear me, baby? hold it together.

**Author's Note:**

> for the smith college overwatch team, aka mccree/torbjorn slash fic enthusiasts.

McCree steps out of his hotel into the heat of the midday sun. The rays reflect across the ocean bordering this bustling coastal town as vacationers hurry this way and that buying sunscreen and souvenirs. Part of him still can't believe he's here, at the beach of all places. He should've known that Angela could drink him under the table what with her nanobots filtering the alcohol for her. _That's gotta be some kinda cheatin',_ he begins to think, but shrugs it off; he's a man of his word, and a bet's a bet. Besides, there's worse things he could be doing than taking a forced vacation. It's only for today, anyway.

McCree tips his hat lower to block the glare from the tropical sun as he heads towards the water. Warmth seeps through his body as he settles onto the sand, anonymous in the sea of tourists. He's never much liked the beach; too hot, too many people, too much grit to knock out of his boots at the end of the day. Still, as he watches a group of shirtless men playing volleyball, he can't help but admit the beach has its perks. The view is quite nice.

He lights a cigar as he lazily watches the men jump and dive. One of them catches his eye. He's markedly shorter than the rest of the players, and yet he jumps as high as any of them. The sun glints off the player's left arm every time he goes up for a block or a spike. McCree can discern the shape of a beard, full and long. _A man after my own heart,_ he thinks, chuckling slightly.

It's only after the match ends and the player suddenly meets his eyes that McCree realizes he's been staring at him for the past ten minutes. He quickly looks away, habitually tugging his brim lower. He's not sure whether the light heat spreading across his face is from the sun. After a moment, he sneaks a glance back, but even though a second game has started, the small man is gone. McCree's surprised to realize he's a little disappointed. He had hoped to see the man running and diving again, sweating under the beach sun. How would it feel to run a hand through that thick beard, warm and damp from exercise? The heat grows a little more on his face imagining it. Disgruntled, McCree takes a long drag on his cigar and turns away. _You ain't even met the man, asshole,_ he grumbles to himself. _Quit runnin' after every little fancy that flies through your head._ He closes his eyes, clearing his thoughts, and relaxes into the warmth around him.

The sun's beginning to fall behind the horizon when McCree finally stands, brushing sand off his cloak. He makes his way to a little Mexican restaurant next to his hotel. Highly recommended, according to the brochures he found in his room. Amazing beans. Naturally, the restaurant is packed when he steps inside. McCree pushes his his way past the sunburnt families waiting for a table, ignoring glares, and manages to find an open seat at the bar. He orders a whiskey and waits, picking bits of sand out of his beard in the meantime.

When the bartender returns, however, she hands McCree two glasses of whiskey instead of one. "A gift from the man in the corner over there," she says with a hearty wink. Confused, he follows where she's pointing and, to his shock, sees the short volleyball player from this afternoon. The man waves and makes his way over, trading seats with the woman on McCree's left. This close, McCree can see the elegant braids expertly woven into the man's beard.

"Hey." The man holds out a hand. McCree takes it, admiring its roughness. "The name's Torbjorn."

"McCree. Thanks for the drink." 

"Don't worry about it," Torbjorn smiles. "Gave me an excuse to come talk to ya. Not many 'round here with such a fine piece of work as that." He points to McCree's left arm, the metal glowing slightly amber under the restaurant's lights. "Mind if I take a look?"

Normally, McCree wouldn't let a stranger get so close, but something about Torbjorn's eagerness and excitement made him less wary. "Sure. Can't take it off, though, unless you wanna inspect my chest with it."

Torbjorn laughs. "Wouldn't mind that." McCree's heart flutters a bit. "But I'm mostly interested in the arm, myself. See how it compares to my own craftsmanship." Torbjorn waggles his own left arm in the air, the robotic claw spinning for effect.

McCree offers his arm and Torbjorn takes it in his hands. He slides his fingers up and down the metal, examining every plate and hinge. McCree tries not to shiver, but it's hard; Torbjorn's touch is electric, and every movement sends heat running up his arm into his chest. He watches as Torbjorn carefully tests the prosthetic's range, admiring the focus and passion glowing in the his eyes. Torbjorn's beard rubs against his leg, and McCree has to stop himself from reaching out and touching it.

After what feels like an eternity, Torbjorn pulls away, apparently satisfied. McCree takes his arm back, rubbing it. "So? What's the verdict?"

"Well, all your parts are fine," Torbjorn says with an air of expertise. "Your movement's good. You take good care of it, I'll tell you that."

"But?"

Torbjorn grins. "Compared to my arm, that thing's no more than a rusty piece of tin. Can't even hold lava with it. What's the use in that?"

McCree laughs, enjoying Torbjorn's pride. "I reckon you swim in volcanoes a lot, then? That's a hell of a life."

"No, not that many around here," Torbjorn replies, lighthearted but serious. "Work with molten ore, though."

"Well, works for you, then. Considerin' I don't, it's not much of a concern, is it? Can't hold it against my arm if it ain't made for your job."

Torbjorn chuckles. "Fine, if you want to get picky. Still, bet my arm's strength can best yours any day." He waggles his arm again, a glint of challenge in his eyes. "Ol' Torbjorn makes his babies tough."

McCree meets his gaze. "Wanna bet?"

Wordlessly, the men prop their arms on the counter. The bartender slides closer, curious, as their metal hands meet. Torbjorn's touch still tingles, but McCree's desire to win drowns out any other soft feeling floating around in his chest.

McCree grins. "Now I warn you, I don't much like losing."

Torbjorn grins right back. "Better get used to it."

Then there's nothing but force, McCree straining against the weight of Torbjorn's claw. He's never met anyone who can beat his left arm in arm wrestling, but Torbjorn's certainly giving him a run for his money. Both men grab the counter for extra leverage, struggling to gain any advantage they can. McCree hears a whoop and realizes a good number of patrons have turned to watch them fight. He doubles his efforts. Torbjorn matches. He can hear the whine of their servos grinding as sweat starts to bead on his brow.

He locks eyes with Torbjorn. "Give it up, old man, this cowboy's got you beat!"

"Hah! My infant son's got a stronger arm than you!"

_Son?_ Surprise makes McCree tense, and he slams Torbjorn's arm into the counter with unexpected force. The wooden surface splinters under their arms. McCree sees the bartender's excitement turn to fury in an instant. Torbjorn must have seen it, too, because he's suddenly dragging McCree away from the bar and out the door, calling out apologies and promises back over his shoulder. McCree stumbles along.

Torbjorn drags him to the beach and down the coastline until the restaurant's lights are no more than glowing pricks in the distance. They turn to each other, panting. McCree suddenly realizes that they are still holding hands, that they never let go after he won the match. He makes to pull away, but Torbjorn bursts out laughing, falling to the sand and bringing McCree down next to him.

"D-did you!" Torbjorn struggles to get the words out in between fits of laughter. "Did you see her face! The bartender's! She was going to kill you!"

At this, McCree bursts out laughing as well, clutching his side with his free hand. When their glee subsides, they lay on the sand, catching their breath. Maybe it's the whiskey, but McCree feels light, happier than he's been in a long time. He turns to look at Torbjorn and sees him staring at their hands, clasped between them. Torbjorn's eyes move to McCree, and he softly smiles.

McCree suddenly realizes their faces are too close. He guiltily takes his hand away and rolls over, subconsciously tugging his hat over his eyes. He hears Torbjorn sit up behind him. "What's wrong?"

McCree doesn't look at him. "Nothin'."

Torbjorn doesn't say anything, but McCree can feel his eyes boring into his back. He can't take it after a few seconds and rolls back over. He's shocked to see hurt written on Torbjorn's face.

"Look," McCree starts, stops, and starts again. "I just...you've got a son. That means you've got a missus somewhere, and I can't be comin' between a man and his missus. That ain't right."

Torbjorn looks away and laughs quietly, but there's no mirth. "I wouldn't worry. The missus went ahead and made herself a miss. If she didn't give birth to him, she wouldn't even remember she had a son."

McCree doesn't know what to say to that. He keeps looking at Torbjorn. His beard glows silver in the moonlight, giving him an ethereal glow. The word "beautiful" flashes across McCree's mind, and this time he can't stop himself from reaching out to feel it. His fingers brush up lightly against the white hair and it's amazingly soft and silky, feeling made of the moonlight surrounding them. At his touch, Torbjorn turns, and McCree sees emotion glistening in his eyes. They are so close again. McCree smiles weakly. "Guess I can kiss you then, can't I?"

Torbjorn doesn't wait. In an instant his hands cup McCree's face, beards tangling as he presses their lips together. The kiss is soft at first, but McCree demands more, increasing the pressure. Torbjorn makes a small noise in his throat and McCree melts against him, heat coursing through his veins. Torbjorn's electric passion flows into him and he's on fire with feeling and love. Eventually, they break apart, holding each other close. Torbjorn traces circles on the small of McCree's back. McCree relishes the touch. He runs a hand through Torbjorn's beard and he's never been so incredibly content in his life.

All too soon, the moment ends. Torbjorn pulls away to stand and helps McCree to his feet. He takes Torbjorn's hand, winding their fingers together, and they slowly make their way back to town.

At the entrance to McCree's hotel, Torbjorn hesitates, then grins. "So ya like long walks on the beach, then."

McCree smiles. "Guess I do."

Torbjorn holds his grin for a second more, but it soon fades. "Will I see you again?"

The vulnerable way he asks it twists at McCree's heart. He puts his hand on Torbjorn's cheek. "Yes. I don't know when I'll be back here, but if I know anythin', I know we'll meet before long."

Torbjorn leans into McCree's hand, savoring the last bit of contact. He kisses McCree's palm, whispers a good night, and is gone.

\---

Back in Angela's kitchen the next day, McCree sips his coffee slowly. Angela herself sweeps in, sitting down next to him with coffee in one hand and the paper in the other. They sit in comfortable silence for a bit until Angela abruptly drops the paper. "So...?"

McCree sips. "So what?"

Angela lightly slaps him on the arm. "How was the beach, McCree?"

"Hot," he grunts.

"Hot?" She waggles her eyebrows. "Was that because of the sun, or the men?"

He throws the paper at her and she laughs, but he can't help but think of Torbjorn under the moonlight.

"You're blushing!" McCree sputters in his coffee. Angela's eyes are alight with mischief. "It was the men! I can't believe you wouldn't tell your best friend, who tricked you into taking a much-needed vacation, all about your newfound crush." She nudges him. "So? How is he?"

McCree smiles. "Perfect."

**Author's Note:**

> you're welcome.


End file.
